


not today

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: Kinktober 2017 [9]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Magic, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Sexual Fantasy, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: She’s rather proud of her self-control. It’s been weeks, and despite the fire in her veins, despite the constant flicker of her thoughts, Queenie resists. She figures, in a strange and twisted way, that it’s something to be proud of.





	not today

**Author's Note:**

> Have some solo Queenie! Hope you enjoy!

**October 11 th – Orgasm Denial**  
  
She’s rather proud of her self-control. It’s been weeks, and despite the fire in her veins and the ache between her legs, despite the constant flicker of her thoughts, Queenie resists. She figures, in a strange and twisted way, that it’s something to be proud of.   
  
It gets more difficult though, with each passing day, with each passing hour and minute and second. Her thoughts flicker, rapid fire, and she loses control of them quickly. Sitting in her favourite spot at her favourite coffee shop, each passing person becomes the object of her fantasy. The business lady with her beautiful headdress and ash-blond edges done just perfectly. Queenie imagines mouthing along those magnificent collarbones and peeling back that expensive suit to reveal perfectly shaped, tight little breasts.   
  
She has to cover her own with her arms, spine rounding to sink her lower in her seat. Queenie doesn’t want give the entire coffee shop a show of her piercings as they try to poke through the thin material of her shirt. The sensation and the pull of her shirt along her skin tugs a breathless gasp from her. Beside her, another student looks up, pulling his earbud out and glancing around for the source of the sound.   
  
His hair shimmers auburn in the weak morning sun. Queenie aches to run her fingers through it, to feel it against her thighs as he dips his head -   
  
_Stop._   
  
She bites her lip, holding back whatever sound is trying to work its way up her throat, and forces herself to quit squirming in her seat. Queenie can feel how wet she is, the slide of her panties against her obscene. She’s almost fearful that there will be a wet patch on the back of her skirt if she stands, and not for the first time today is thankful she wore black. It won’t show, at least, she hopes.   
  
Queenie takes a deep breath and then reaches for her tea, sipping at it and ignoring the way her hand shakes. She adjusts her earbuds, flipping through her tracks until she finds a podcast, and then sets down to work again. Queenie manages to almost forget the pulsing ache between her legs for an hour or so, burying herself in her studies.   
  
When a man who looks more like a wraith than a human glides into the shop, Queenie finds her attention wandering again, to hunter green shirt overlaid by a soft looking leather jacket and well broke jeans. He’s wearing a pair of beat up combat boots, and a dark stud shines in both his ears. Mid-thirties, going grey at the temples and with the most soulful dark eyes Queenie’s ever looked into. They make eye contact, as he turns away from the counter with his coffee, and it’s like everything stops for the briefest of instances.   
  
There’s no heart-wrenching revelation. She doesn’t hear any angel choirs and sees no light, but the lock of that gaze, intense and gentle and inquisitive, has Queenie fighting to keep control. He smiles and ducks his head, going out of the door and leaving Queenie to stare after him, slack jawed.   
  
The boy beside her, the one with auburn hair, clears his throat and then chuckles. His voice is high and fluid, “He’s a looker, isn’t he?”  
  
Queenie makes a sound, probably more like choking than actual verbalization. She sweeps her things up, stuffing them in her bag and practically bolts out the door with barely a nod to Jake behind the counter.   
  
Queenie hurries all the way back to her apartment; elbows are useful things in busy New York streets, and Queenie makes good use of them. She swipes her fob and yanks open the door, climbing six flights of stairs and fumbling with the key to her apartment. The door slams behind her, shuddering in its’ frame. Queenie gasps out loud, dropping her things and sliding to the floor behind the door. Her head thumps back against it, hard enough to hurt.   
  
When she closes her eyes, she can see him. Those brown eyes, his face hovering just over her. The crook of his grin, devious and playful, before his head dips and that slicked back undercut disappears between her thighs. Queenie moans out loud, hand twitching at her side. Her thighs fall open unconsciously, inviting the stranger between them.   
  
Queenie imagines the broad flat of his tongue against her, the way his nose bumps her swollen clit. Frantic fingers – hers or his – crawl across her body, tugging her shirt up so she can roll her nipples between them. Others nudge her sodden underwear aside, a single digit circling around her entrance, spreading the slick. Queenie cries out, brows pinching. She needs it so bad, and yet she hesitates, picturing the way he would tease her, guide her to the brink and then back her away. Again. And again. And again. Maybe not let her come for days, the way she’s denying herself.   
  
He’d tease her so well, the husk of his voice against the shell of her ear as he uses her, takes Queenie for his own pleasure but denies her hers.   
“ _Not yet, love. Not yet. It isn’t time_.”  
  
Queenie whimpers. Her thighs quiver, the muscle jumping beneath skin. Her toes curl, and her stomach twists. Queenie tries to resist, but it’s so hard. Her fingers press between her folds, rubbing frantically over her clit. She fills the room with a cacophony of moans and the wet sounds of her cunt, pulsing weakly. Already, the peak is building; she takes step by step down the trail, charging for the edge. Queenie clenches her eyes shut more tightly and arches her back, shoving her pelvis more fully into the contact.   
  
“Oh-oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-“  
  
She’s going to come. She needs to come. Queenie can feel it, pleasure morphing and sharpening until it cuts like a razor’s edge.   
  
“Oh-“  
  
She pulls her hand away at the last second; Queenie’s taken herself to the edge and dangled off it, holding onto her sensibilities with just the tips of her fingers. She cries out, gasping and panting, chest heaving. Her fingers twitch, curling into claws ready to punish. Her body screams at her, as if saying, why?  
  
_Not yet_ , she tells herself. _Not yet. Not today. Not today. Not today_.   
  



End file.
